PECKING ORDER

We have four horses—not quite a herd but more than a clump. We feed them. We brush them. We ride them. We move their poop around. 

We do not treat them like long lost relatives or really tall humans.

We treat them like horses. The horses prefer this, which many folks—who have only seen horses acting in the movies, or have heard about horses on Twitter—find confusing.

A horse owner I know had a neighbor call to complain about my friend’s horses. It seems they were outside—in the rain—getting wet.

It’s hard to know what to say to this kind of silly, stupi . . . er . . . um . . . it’s hard to know what to say.  So in the interest of education and knowledge, which is the solution to all modern ills, spills, and trouble, here’s a short tutorial.

Horses are outside animals.  Keeping a horse in the kitchen is problematic because when they get stuck between the refrigerator and the sink they tend to kick your house down.

Horses are wolf food, thus their talent for kicking.  Thousands of years of being hunted and eaten by toothy mountain monsters helped the horse evolve a certain “wait and see” attitude. Is that a butterfly or a saber-toothed butterfly? And since I am prey should I run away now or later?

Horses feel better when surrounded by other horses. They’re like teenage girls; they always go to the toilet in a clump.

Horses like tyranny. Equality does not exist in horse world. They want someone at the top who bites their butts and kicks their faces. That way when the saber-toothed butterflies show up, someone is always the boss and responsible for yelling, “Stampede.”

It’s called a pecking order. Alpha horses peck first and so it goes down the line. Tyranny means order, and if you’re a horse order means safety and safety makes you feel better. (Note:  Humans who respond to tyranny in this way have essentially become prey animals and should prepare to get pecked or eaten.)

Horses should not be ridden in short shorts and halter-tops. That’s just a personal fashion opinion and not really a horse fact.

Horses are one thousand pound vegetarians, which requires them to eat grass, grain, and hay ALL DAY LONG. Think about it! 

When mommy horses want to discipline their rebellious baby horses they chase them and chase them until their babies can’t breathe or until they cry, “Uncle!” and apologize. Baby horses apologize by licking their lips, paying attention, and following. Young horses are not allowed to be idiots. (Horses could teach humans a thing or two about parenting.)   

Horses are among the most noble and glorious creatures created by the hand of God, and when the Savior of the world returns he’ll be riding a white horse.  I read that somewhere. I find that image very appealing.

When our son-in-law saw one of our horses rolling around on the ground he thought it was dying. He’d never seen a horse take a dirt bath before. Our son-in-law is from Bountiful, Utah. Enough said.

Let’s recap. Horses are not tall humans. Horses are beautiful. Europeans eat horsemeat, thus making them horse eating predators or saber-toothed barbarians.

Linda (Tally Ho) Zern

   

     

  

  

  

Sophisticated Marshmallow Smuggling - A Classic

The way a family spends its weekend is a real indicator of just how nuts a family is, no matter how not nuts they want people to believe they are.

My family is an excellent example of this working theory. We would like you to believe that we are sophisticated intellectual sorts who spend our leisure hours having deep philosophical discussions, frequenting places of stimulating cultural interest, and engaging in recreational activities. Here’s how the weekend really shakes out.

THE DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION:

After watching The Lord of the Rings—again—we begin our post-movie, round table discussion by answering the following question, “What would you do if you had a ring that made you invisible?” Answers include . . .

Phillip (the son-in-law) - “I’d go around doing good for all mankind.”

Sherwood (my husband of forever) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms.”

Phillip (when he heard Sherwood’s answer) -  “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms with Sherwood.”

Me (the voice of reason and sanity) - “I’d sneak up behind Sherwood and Phillip sneaking around women’s locker rooms and bop them on the head.” But then I added, “Invisibility ring! I’m already invisible.  What I need is a VISISBILITY ring.”

 Adam (Please see my essay, Only A Nimrod Would Think that he could Tip Over a Whole Cow) – “I’d sneak up behind cows and tip them over.”

Maren (nineteen at the time) – “Men are dogs.”

 Heather (after twenty minutes of deep thought) – “Pants People?”

 THE FEATURED CULTURAL ACTIVITY:

 Before Disney, before Universal, before civilization there was Gatorland. Gatorland is a semi-tropical ode to tacky tourist traps.  We love it.

Murky pools of fetid water swirl as Florida alligators and the occasional crocodile glide by. Reptiles, roughly the size of sofas, bask in the shimmering heat. We throw marshmallows at them. Visitors can buy hotdogs to toss to the gators, which bring them to a boiling frenzy, but why? For ninety-nine cents and the thrill of watching Adam smuggle a bag of Jet-puffed marshmallows in his pants you can bring these pre-historic handbags to the point of hysteria.

(Please note: It is wrong to do this and you should never, ever smuggle foodstuffs in your pants when visiting Gatorland—ever. I’ll tell.)

And before anyone complains that we’re probably causing cavities in the alligators with our contraband marshmallows, let me remind you that alligators use their teeth for grabbing you, not chewing you. Alligators eat you—after they death roll you, drown up, stuff you under a submerged log, and tenderize you. Then they snack on you. Believe me, those marshmallows never touched their teeth.

Culture is 150 alligators lined up and waiting—breathless—for the next Jet-puffed marshmallow. Our working theory is that they’re sick of eating hot-dogs, biting chunks out of each other, or jumping for dangling chickens. (Note:  Yes they do jump, no matter what Sherwood and Philip say. They don’t jump great, but they jump.)

RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY:

Once a month, we indulge in Sunday dinner with the Chevrier family.  Note: Sometimes the Chevrier’s temporarily adopt one or more of our children and raise them, like in the Middle Ages when you sent your kids to other people’s castles to check out the alligators in their moats. 

So we have dinner. We eat. We talk. We discuss deep philosophical issues like, “Will marshmallows give alligators high blood pressure?” And if we’re really in a wild and crazy mood we take our own temperatures with Carol’s way cool ear thermometer. Aren’t you glad I didn’t say rectal thermometer?

There’s crazy and then there’s weird.

There you have it, philosophy, culture, and recreation. One of the things I like best about our family is that we can really laugh at ourselves. I can’t think of people I’d rather be invisible with or get busted with while smuggling marshmallows in my pants.

Linda (Puffy Pants) Zern

Lost and Lonely in Translation

A Stranger in a Strange Land - Sherwood K. Zern

"Don't try to understand them; and don't try to make them understand you. For they are a breed apart and make no sense." (Hawkeye in Last of the Mohicans)

The nice British man at the hotel health club showed me how to push the correct buttons on the treadmill, because I don’t treadmill much or ever. It’s boring and a little too hamster-like. Besides most of the exercise “machines” are set up for giants.

I’m more hobbit sized or hamster-esque.

Mostly, I enjoy dancing my way to fitness in zumba class or punching my way to a better attitude through combat kickboxing, where I can pretend to front kick giant bullies to death. 

Anyway, there were no zumba classes, so the nice young man was pointing out the various treadmill buttons: hamster wheel power on; cliff incline going up; mountain avalanche going down; trudging speed; time left to trudge; number of cookies worked off; etc.

When he pointed to the giant red stop button, I looked at him and asked, “So does that mean the same thing in England as it does in America?”

“Sure,” he said. “Stop means stop.”

Sort of, except when it doesn’t.

Last night our British waitress disappeared for twenty minutes, because she had to “put a cake down” she later explained.

The table full of Americans looked at her—confused.

“You killed a cake?” someone asked, shocked.

“What? No. What?”

“In America, when you “put something down” it means you killed it or are going to kill it; like when we’re going to put Fluffy down. Like that.”

“What? No. What?”

Is it any wonder that the world is a boiling kettle of misunderstanding? It’s so hard to make sense of each other. Honestly. Who kills a cake?  You might “polish it off” but that’s about it. And England is a country that speaks American, except when they don’t. 

My husband asked a cab driver if they do any “mutton bustin’” in England.

The cabbie replied, “No, we leave that to the Welsh and we call it sheep shaggin’.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Mutton bustin’ is putting your children on the backs of sheep and letting them get bucked off.”

Not the same thing at all.

And that’s why conflict and invasion are inevitable, because dialogue is filled with the endless land mines of misunderstanding, confusion, and kooky talk.

Sheep shaggin’ indeed! Who let’s their sheep run around with a bad haircut from the seventies?

Linda (Shag Cut) Zern